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Off in a little hole in the wall sat a bar many know of but few visit. It had no sign at the front, so anybody who knew about it referred to it by its street name, 394 Hartsford Way. Coming in through the front door was a vested gator on the prowl for his next meal.

He got the tip from one of his old mates when the latter learned he was going to the states for business. "Oi'm tellin' ya, Ark, the yanks there know what's up," the kangaroo mused before proceeding to wax poetic about his own visit a good five years back. Arkram, or Ark as his mates knew him, stood there and scouted the place.

Including the bartender, a total of eight men were gathered in the area, either on one of the tables or seated at the counter. Among them, worn denim was the flavor of the week, and for them, the week never ended. Four pairs of eyes looked back at him, and the other four were minding their own business. Most of them had some level of swelling, particularly in the cheeks.

Among the lookers, one ram at the counter pulled away from counseling a sheepish Retriever to look back at the newcomer. This roman sculpture of a man was just as big as the gator, and built just as well: Biceps and thighs sculpted by years of heavy lifting, and a brick wall of a chest held together by years of hearty meals. From the entrance, Ark could see more than a few specks of grey peppered in his cream-furred face, and a pair of thick horns kept his trucker's cap sandwiched in place.

A simple tip of the cap was the ram's only gesture for Ark to come over, but when he did that, all eyes turned on one or the other, chewing or sipping in anticipation for what would transpire. In that instant, a flood of emotion filled the gator's mind. He didn't know whether to be humbled by the warm welcome or intimidated by the attention this ram garnered, leaving him with a confused scowl. All he knew was that he needed to see this man up close, and he made his way over from the front door to the counter in the back, paying just enough attention to the bruised bodies at the tables to avoid bumping into them along the way.

When the two were finally face-to-face, Ark's scowl was met with a soft chuckle from the ram. His raised eyebrow furrowed when he asked, "Yeah? Y'want somethin' from me mate, or ya just wanna waste my time?"

The ram laughed a belly laugh in response, betraying his southern drawl before he even spoke up. When he did speak, he threw an arm over Ark's shoulders, and a pair eating at a table grinned as if they knew what he would say next. "You seemed a little lonely standin' there on yer own, so I thought y'could use some company. You seem t'know where y'are, so how 'bout I maek it worth yer while? I can even cover the tab for anythin' on the menu." With that, the trucker-capped gentleman gestured to the barkeep for a menu.

"Oi can cover moiself, mate," Ark huffed, raising an eyebrow as he pushed the ram's arm aside to take the menu. When he read the typewritten contents, he twitched an eye at the bartender. The one-eyed badger simply pointed a thumb back at a handwritten set of rules set on the wall, the relevant article being "4. Purchase required for access ot the rooms or floor." Aware of the rule, Ark looked back down at the menu, and made his decision.

"Four Wraps fer me, then."

"Balboa Classic."

Nodding in acknowledgement, the badger reached a hand under the counter, and a set of feet and hand wraps were laid down for Ark. For the ram, he got a pair of boxing gloves, wraps, and a thin pair of boxing shorts. Finally, the badger retrieved a fresh pair of mouth guards from a jar and set them down.

With their equipment laid out before them, Ark and the ram exchanged chit-chat while they got into their gear, even sharing a drink before the latter put on his gloves. As he helped himself out of his wifebeater and leather vest, he learned that the ram was called Basil, or Baz to his friends. While the two wrapped their hands, Baz told his favorite story about keeping a friend's grandmother's furniture safe as they drove his truck backwards down a a frozen mountain top. Ark followed that up by giving a rundown of what led him from his biker gang to become a business rep for a paper company. The two laughed it off as Baz got into his shorts and gloves, and after fitting their mouthguards, agreed to take it to the floor.

The floor was an open space just out of sight from the entrance. The tables half the bar was seated at formed the boundaries of this stage, with at least three drinks and a basket of greasy snacks. In one way or another, the spectators at the front expressed their excitement for the upcoming engagement, whether by cracking their knuckles or leaning over their tables.

Being the first man on the floor, Baz took the far side, setting his clothes down on the wall while Ark tossed his to the side. The ram punched his gloves together while the alligator licked his lips. Both men gave a mutual nod, and they went at it, fists blazing.

BAFF!

The match opened with a cross counter, with each man nailing the other square in the cheek. Both species were known for their thick skulls, so neither one was going down right then and there, the only sign that anything happened was the goat's cap lying on the ground behind him. Baz was quicker to recover, following up with a one-two to the gator's maw. Anticipating a lower blow, Ark took the straight head-on, stumbling back from the force.

The ram could see where his opponent was going, and pulled him into a clinch, inches away from a plastered porcupine and his pretzels. In such close proximity, both men could feel the other's tension rising, but before Ark could even snort out steam, he was thrown back down to the floor, and got a heel to his gut afterward.

When Baz raised his foot for a second stomp, Ark rolled over his grounded leg, sending him crashing into an empty table. His head off the floor, Ark mounted his opponent, the hunger clear in his eyes as he rained fist after fist down on his prey. By this point, all four heads started to swell, and the other patrons were banging their tables for applause.

Ark's left hand held the ram's face down while he raised his right hand for what he thought would be a knockout punch. Before it could land, however, Baz twisted his hips and sent the gator back to the floor, getting back to his feet before the guard closed up. To celebrate his great escape, Baz brought his right glove below the belt to adjust himself while Ark got back to his feet.

Where Baz fought his urges during this fight, Ark reveled in it, taking a chair to the ram's flank. The furniture broke to pieces on impact, but the gator thought it was enough of a distraction for him to go in for a linebacker's tackle. Baz was ready when it happened, however, and managed to get the gator into a powerbomb...

SLAM!

The impact left Ark seeing stars, and his tongue lolled out when Baz let his legs hit the floor. Before the gator could regain his bearings, he was lifted back to his feet, too dazed to protest while his opponent batted his head around with light punches. The teasing made the gator leak through his pants, but one of those punches knocked him back into the fight, and once he knew where he was, he weaved his head under Baz's right arm, lifted him off his feet, and slammed him back down for another round of ground and pound. At this point, he grew deaf and blind to the world around him, with eyes and ears only for his opponent.

THUD THUD THUD THUD

Despite his gloves giving him extra coverage, Baz struggled to block all the incoming fists, and he began to groan out as his splattered spit pooled around him. His legs began to squirm in response, and the resulting movement let both men's shafts trade sap. When he did somehow manage to shove Ark off, his eyes were nearly swollen shut, and he was left gasping for air.

It was Ark's turn to let Baz recover while he adjusted himself, tossing aside his jeans so he was left with only a pair of tighty whities to keep him decent. Rolling his arms and spitting out the taste of plywood, he gestured for the ram to come forward before raising his guard again.

And come forward he did.

WHAM!

One hard punch to the heaving gut knocked the wind out of the panting gator, leaving him unable to recover as he ate fist after leather-bound fist. Ark's thick torso swelled up from the excessive bruising by the time Baz stopped, and with his briefs soaked to near-transparency, it was a wonder how his legs managed to keep him up for even a few seconds before he fell back, tongue lolled out, but the fight wasn't over just yet.

Certain that Ark wouldn't be getting back up, Baz spat out his mouthguard and set his right foot down at the base of the gator's tail. With the balls of his feet resting on Ark's sack, Baz rubbed his toes along his leaking length, while using his gloved hand to handle his own. With how much they were leaking up until this point, it wasn't long before they both blew, sending ropes of cum flying into the air before landing on the gator's battered body. The match now over, Baz pulled the straps off his gloves with his teeth and tossed them in with the rest of their discarded clothes.

As his fellow patrons cheered Baz on, the ram picked his cap off the floor and set it back on his head, sandwiched between his horns as usual. A warm smile on his face, Baz leaned the unconscious Ark onto his shoulders and got helped carry him off upstairs. "Put two nights on my tab. Y'know I'm good fer it," he called out to the barkeep along the way, while the golden retriever from before helped take up their clothes.

Baz, and especially Ark didn't know how long they would stay in contact, but they knew they had a lot more to talk about, and they knew they wanted another round.